


Sit, Stay

by chalcopyrite



Category: Bandom, Disney RPF
Genre: Animal Transformation, Gen, never trust Gabe Saporta, pure ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalcopyrite/pseuds/chalcopyrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never drink anything Gabe Saporta hands you.  Mike *knows* this.</p><p>Or, coping with life when drinking what he handed you left you with some ... lifestyle changes, shall we say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sit, Stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sparrowsverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrowsverse/gifts).



> For Sparrowsverse, who has been incredibly patient about this whole thing, including me forgetting what a Friday is. Sorry I am a failboat, and thank you again for organising the exchange!

Never drink anything Gabe Saporta hands you.

Mike had known that even at the time, but for a while afterwards he thought about getting it tattooed on his arm, or maybe his face or something, because it was _really fucking important_ , but he'd never gotten around to it, and it wasn't like he was going to forget now. Damage was done.

He could still, like, put up leaflets or something, do a public information campaign in case Gabe ever shows up in Santa Monica and starts passing out Dixie cups, but right now he's kind of busy. This seaweed smells _awesome_ , and there are seagulls.

Chasing gulls keeps him busy until more joggers come onto the beach, the serious ones and the ones who just want to show off their short-shorts, and the gulls can't settle anymore. Then Mike trots back along the sand to where he left his car unlocked -- it's a piece of shit, but he's still pretty sure it's going to get boosted some day -- and wrangles his way into the back seat so he can get some pants on. Then he can fish the key out of the wheel well and go get breakfast with some really strong coffee, because that seaweed smelled awesome, but it's left the nastiest taste imaginable in the back of his mouth.

"You must have a dog," the waitress says after she's poured his coffee and taken his order.

Mike glances down where she's looking -- he hadn't even noticed the fur stuck to his t-shirt. He does what he can to keep it off his clothes, but the whole back seat's liver-and-white, and his half-assed vacuuming doesn't ever get all of it off. "Yeah, something like that."

"I love dogs! I've got a Pomeranian cross -- what kind's yours?"

"Um, he's a spaniel." 

"Aw," she coos. Mike wishes she'd go pour coffee for someone else -- and bring him his pancakes, while she's at it -- but he's never, actually, been good at just being rude to people he doesn't know. "You should bring him with you some time -- dogs are allowed on the terrace, you know."

"Yeah, uh, maybe I will." 

She flashes him a last breaking-into-acting smile and finally goes to deal with the impatient-looking guy two tables down. Mike slouches back in his chair and brushes ineffectively at the fur on his shirt.

Fucking Gabe Saporta, seriously.

*

He'd thought about being caught without pants, but somehow he's completely surprised to be picked up for not having pants when he's a dog -- or, really, not having a collar and tags, which he figures is probably like public nudity for someone covered in fur. The back of the van smells like nervousness and piss and a whole bunch of other dogs and a lot of disinfectant, and it makes him feel kinda sick. There's a few other dogs in there already when Mike gets bundled in, and they keep yapping like they can't decide what's wrong about him, but they know something is. It's just as well the ride doesn't last long before someone's opening the back doors and reaching in to pull out the cage he's in, along with all the others.

He gets checked in and weighed and checked for _fleas_ which is the crown of fucking indignities he's suffering this morning, and then he hears one of the techs say, "Friendly little guy, isn't he?" to another and he kind of wants to bite himself to death. Then he hears "have to be neutered" and he wants to bite someone _else_ to death, because oh fuck, he's in the pound, isn't he, and first they're going to cut off his balls and then they're going to stick him back in a cage and if no one comes to get him -- and no one will, he's pretty sure about that -- they're going to -- he doesn't even want to think it. Fuck fuck fuck.

They don't get on with bodily mutilation straight away, though, just take him into a room with stacked cages, bigger ones, and sort of pour him out of the carrier into one of them. Like before, the other dogs -- no, the _dogs_ in the room don't like how Mike smells or something, because some of them set up an amazing fucking racket, like he's intruding on their territory or some shit. Mike doesn't know about dogs, he was mostly focused on the gull-chasing parts. Which got him into this fucking mess, he guesses.

He curls up in the back corner of his cage, and the dogs get used to him and shut up after a while, so he can think. He's about decided that he'll wait until night, turn back, and get out -- even if the outside door's locked, he can find some sort of clothes and sneak out in the morning -- or if anyone comes in making more noises about neutering, he'll turn back right then and fuck the headlines.

He's not sure how much time goes by, but it's not too long before the door opens again and someone comes in. Mike tenses up, expecting _this_ is someone coming to take him to some kind of awful surgery, but then he catches the whiff of food. It's just breakfast, he guesses, and sure enough the staff member goes around the room with bowls of kibble, putting one in each kennel. Mike gets one of his own, and it turns out that dog food takes just great when you're a dog. It's a lot like the seaweed, he guesses.

After that, the dogs get taken out in groups, a few at a time on leashes, then brought back. Mike can smell fresh air coming from somewhere, and when someone comes for him, just him, with a leash, he gets to find out. He tries to remember which doors they go through, because he's going to need to get out of here, but it's harder to hold onto details when he's a dog. All he can really remember is a hallway, and some doors, and then he's outside -- nothing like the beach, it's a pretty small fenced yard, but it's outside, at least. The leash is a pain in the ass, but it's not going to break easily, and pulling doesn't get him let off it, so he gives in and just half-drags the staff member around on the end of it, sniffing in the corners. 

Taking a crap with someone else watching is weirder than he would have expected, given all the time he spent living on a bus with one tiny bathroom and on tour with everyone up in each other's space all the time. Somehow pissing on smells is easier. He's probably spent too much time around Pete.

After that they go back inside, and Mike goes back in his box. It's hard to relax, with all the dogs around on edge and waiting to see if someone comes to take him away, but he sort of dozes off for a bit. Then he's woken up by the door opening again.

It's two people he hasn't seen before, one of them in the blue shirt that all the staff seem to wear, and another one who's not. Shit, maybe it's the vet or something. Mike backs into the furthest corner of his box and swallows down a growl.

"What were you looking for?" the woman in blue asks the other guy, and Mike'd swear she's including herself in what's on offer. The guy doesn't seem to hear it, though, just looks around the room and says, "I'm not sure. A friendly dog, I guess. Company. I just moved here and I don't know people."

"Well, have a look around," the woman says, "and if you want to get any of them out, I'll be right here." The come-on's even more obvious this time, but the guy just nods and crouches down to peer into a crate.

Mike settles back into the corner of his crate -- the other dogs can beg for attention, but he's got his own home to go to as soon as he can, he doesn't need someone to rescue him. So he's not expecting it when the guy crouches down right in front of his crate and says, "What about this one?" Mike can't help but pick his had up to take a look.

The door opens and the guy reaches in, but he doesn't grab for Mike, just leaves his hand there at the opening. He smells pretty good, interesting, so Mike scoots forward to find out more. 

The two people are talking, but Mike can't really focus enough to make sense of the words, not with the way the guy's petting him, scratching behind his ears and under his chin and _oh_. If this is what being petted feels like for dogs, no wonder they're so keen on it.

(Yeah, the guys petted him a little before, but he didn't like being a dog around them because it was bound to raise questions eventually, and in the early days when he couldn't help it, he was too frustrated and pissed off about what had happened to pay much attention.)

"Come on out?" the guy asks, and when his hand pulls away, Mike figures out he's talking to _him_.

He slides out of his crate and oh wow, the petting feels even better when it's on his shoulders too, and his back, and the base of his tail -- okay, no, that's getting a little personal.

"He just came in," the staff woman offers. "He didn't have any tags, so he's probably a stray."

"Yeah?" The guy goes back to scratching around the base of Mike's ears.

"He seems to like you."

"I like him too." The petting stops with a last pat, and the guy stands up. "Can I take him home?"

"There's some paperwork," the woman says. "I can walk you through it." Yup, she's making one last try at flirting, but the guy still doesn't even seem to notice. Mike has to give her points for persistence, though.

"Here, you can bring him out with us." The woman clips a leash onto the lightweight, temporary collar they'd put on him (and he'd been unable to scratch off) and hands the end to the guy with the nice hands. Mike follows behind them -- okay, and sometimes in front of them -- through a different bunch of doors and out to what Mike thinks must be the front of the building. It smells like people, and a bunch of dogs, and it's really kinda gross. Mike sticks close to the guy holding his leash and hopes they'd leave soon.

The paperwork doesn't take too long, and then they head out the door. The guy guides Mike towards a pretty new SUV and opens the back door for him to climb in before getting in himself. They're already driving along the road when Mike realizes -- he'd had a plan. He was going to get out of the pound and get back to his life. Instead he's following this guy around on a _leash_ , going home with him like he's a _dog_ , not -- not him! 

They pull into a parking lot, and Mike tenses, but the guy just looks over his shoulder and said, "I'll only be a minute" before sliding out of the car. Mike looks around, but they're in the middle of the lot, and there's no way he can make a bare-assed dash for the nearby Target without being spotted. If this guy had a gym bag or something in the car, Mike would be set -- but he can't see anything like that in the back seat or the passenger footwell, and anything in the trunk would require being outside the car while he has thumbs and is therefore naked.

He should have snarled and been mean. Then he'd still be at the pound with a chance to steal a towel.

Before he has time to work himself into a full-on sulk, the door locks clunk open again -- and shit, that's loud from inside the car -- and the guy loads a bunch of packages into the trunk.

"Did you miss me?" he asks, as he gets back into the driver's seat. 

Mike isn't sure if dogs can roll their eyes, but he definitely tries.

He's sure he saw a dog bowl sticking out the top of one of the bags that got loaded, and he stews about that the whole rest of the drive -- he's not just walking on a leash, now he's planning on going somewhere he gets fed out of a bowl on the floor? It probably has his name on it, whatever the hell that is -- he's pretty sure they wrote something on the front of his crate at the pound, but he doesn't know what it was. If he's really lucky, someone decided he looked like an Assface or something.

When the guy opens the back door, Mike's ready for it, and he springs out onto the sidewalk as soon as there's enough of a gap for him to get through. There's no one else out on the street, and he makes a dash for it, the stupid leash flapping along on the ground behind him.

"Freddie!" the guy yells. Mike keeps running. "Freddie, no!"

Mike can hear the guy's feet pounding along behind him, but he's got a head start and he's got more feet. He makes it around the corner of the street and he's sure he's got it taped when a kid runs out of a yard just ahead of him, too close to dodge, and snags the end of that stupid flapping leash. Mike puts the brakes on hard before he gets choked by a sudden stop.

Dammit. He was nearly outta there.

"Freddie!" The guy who brought him home staggers up, panting. If it hadn't been for that kid, Mike would have made it; guy's clearly not used to sprinting.

"Mister Kevin, I got him!" the kid hollers, holding up Mike's leash to show off.

"Thanks Joey, that's great." Mike feels the leash change hands; he's glaring into the distance, where he imagines he can see the sparkle of water. The guy -- Kevin, Mike guesses -- bends down to talk to him. "Freddie, you shouldn't run away like that."

Mike ignores him. Who the fuck thought he looked like a _Freddie_? Though, Mercury, not all bad, but still. Fucking _Freddie_.

"Freddie?"

"Hey, Freddie!" The kid joins in. "What kind of dog is he, Mister Kevin?"

"Uh -- I'm not sure, I just got him. Freddie!"

Mike keeps ignoring them.

"Maybe he doesn't like his name."

Mike finally looks back at them and tries to look expectant. Shit, he never thought he'd need to practice facial expressions when he's covered with fur.

"Freddie?" Mike pointedly looks away again. "I guess you're right, Joey. I'll have to find another one for him. Thanks for catching him." Breath caught, Kevin stands back up with Mike's leash. "Come on ... uh, good dog?"

Mike does his best to roll his eyes again, and follows.

*

On the upside, Kevin still has good hands and is really good at getting the itchy places behind Mike's ears; he has a seriously comfy couch, and Mike's allowed on it (or rather, Kevin doesn't push it when Mike refuses to get off it); he feeds Mike dog food, yeah, but at least he got the _good_ dog food; and he's stopped trying to call Mike 'Freddie.' (Seriously. Freddie.) He smells good, and he's kind, and Mike likes his voice even when he's just talking to himself, or his brother on the phone.

On the downside, he _never leaves Mike alone_. 

Making a break for it so fast was probably a tactical mistake; now Kevin's worried he'll do it again at any opportunity, which means he's super-careful about holding on to Mike's leash (new, and a lot sturdier) when they go for walks, and even stays by the kitchen door watching when he lets Mike out in the (fenced) back yard. He even brings Mike along when he goes to the grocery store, and he _still_ doesn't bring along spare items of clothing so Mike could sneak out of the car without getting arrested for indecency in a parking lot.

It could be worse. Kevin takes him to the park and throws tennis balls for him, and Mike's not ashamed to admit he likes chasing them. (Okay, he would be ashamed if anyone knew it was him, which is why he flat-out refused to play when Sisky tried to get him to fetch, but this is okay.) They go on long walks, and Kevin lets him chase down the interesting smells. They hang out on the couch after supper.

It wouldn't be a bad life, if Mike didn't already _have_ a life. Which he'd kind of like to get back to, even if remembering _why_ is getting a little harder and a little fuzzier as he spends more time here. He just knows he's feeling twitchy, deeper than just knowing he's blown off a study group and he's going to have to wade through pages of spam in his inbox.

Right now Kevin's fiddling with his computer, messing around with details on some music that Mike's heard it's gotta be at least fifty times just in the few days he's been here. Mike can barely hear the differences he's making -- not that he's suddenly deaf or anything, just that the fiddling is that tiny and detailed and unimportant, Mike thinks -- and after listening to all the versions for a couple of hours, they all sound the same anyway. If Mike can't hear the difference, he doesn't know how Kevin possibly can. He thinks the whole thing would sound better in a D key, but there's no way he can communicate something that complicated with barking and Lassie-style mime. He'd look like an idiot, and Kevin wouldn't get it anyway.

Finally Kevin sighs and drops his head into his hands. "I don't know why I'm still trying." He rolls his head sideways so he can see Mike. "I think I kind of suck at this after all."

Mike doesn't know what to say to that, other than yeah, he's been there, so he just goes and leans against Kevin's knee.

"Thanks, big guy." Kevin's fingers come down and brush through the fur on top of Mike's head, and he leans harder to encourage it. Maybe he could get the idea about the key-shift through if he really tried it -- he knows he saw a guitar around here somewhere, before Kevin started fucking around with things on the computer.

This sort of office, nope, living room, nope, kitchen he doesn't even bother to check. Upstairs? The third door down on the left is shut, but the handles are levers instead of knobs -- it's like Kevin planned to have a dog-shaped roomie. Mike pulls it down enough to open the door and shoulders his way into the room. Yeah, there's the guitar he remembered, and several more besides. He starts forward -- shit. There's no way he can pick it up like this, short of biting the neck or something, and just -- no, not doing that.

He heads back down the stairs to get Kevin instead. Kevin's fallen back into GarageBand and is tweaking something else tiny and insignificant. Mike nudges hard at his leg to get his attention.

"Huh? Yeah, I guess I've been here a while." Kevin saves his work and closes the computer before he stands up, but when he gets to the door he heads towards the kitchen instead of following Mike towards the stairs. "Sorry I didn't let you out sooner."

Mike tries to say, "No, over here," but it just comes out as a strangled-sounding bark.

"Come on," Kevin calls from the kitchen. "It's almost bedtime, you should go out."

Seriously, Mike wouldn't have said before that he needed to talk much, but this whole thing is making him change his mind about that. His vocal cords are assholes for abandoning him like this.

Kevin won't get the hint, so Mike follows him to the kitchen, goes out into the back yard and checks -- again -- to make sure there isn't a nice gap in the fence he could wiggle under or jump over, maybe a map with a big YOU ARE HERE marked on it, car keys, anything. Still nope. So he just pisses on the landscaping -- at least Kevin doesn't _watch him_ watch him while he's doing this -- and trots back into the kitchen. He gets a piece of jerky for his trouble and then follows Kevin up the stairs. The jerk doesn't even notice the door to the guitar room is open, just closes it absent-mindedly as he goes past.

Whatever. Mike can work on his Lassie impression some more tomorrow, since it looks like he'll _still be here_.

*

Mike wakes up to a shriek, and jumps to his feet. Tries to jump to his feet -- he overbalances and falls off the bed. He's going to have hellish carpet burn on his knees.

Wait, knees! He has knees! He untangles himself and turns around so he can make sure they're really there, being all -- knee-like. Hands, too. Wow, hands are awesome.

"Who the hell are you?" Kevin demands, overhead.

Oh yeah. That's why he wasn't supposed to have hands right now. Or knees.

Or be naked. Whoops.

"I'm, ah--" Mike starts off, hoping he'll come up with something on the way to the end of this sentence.

"Who are you and what are you doing here? And where's my dog?" Kevin asks, louder. Shit, he's going for the bedside table; if he calls the cops, Mike's _really_ gonna have some 'splaining to do. He lurches to his knees and holds his hands out, as see-not-threatening as he can manage.

"Kevin, wait, I can explain!"

That just makes Kevin's eyes wider. "How do you know my name?"

"I've been living here for the last three days." Too late, Mike realizes how that sounds and tries to back up. "I mean, I--"

"I'm calling the police." Kevin makes another reach for his phone next to the bed.

"I'm the dog you brought home!"

That seems to calm Kevin down. But in the wrong way, it turns out. "Okay, that's fine." He picks up the phone and unlocks it. "You just stay there, and everything will be fine." He slides off the bed without taking his eyes off Mike, and backs away through the bedroom door.

"Wait, no!" Mike lunges after him and just catches the door before it closes. He does the only thing he can think of -- the only thing that might make Kevin believe him, and possibly put off calling the cops until he can explain, and lands on the hall carpet on four feet again.

Kevin's still just outside, and looks down with his finger poised over the 'call' button. Mike yaps at him -- he still can't figure out a good bark -- and nudges the door open with his head. Kevin peers around the edge, and his eyes go even wider when he sees the room's empty.

"He was--" Mike yaps at him again and he looks down. "You were...?"

Mike makes his nod as obvious and human as he can. Kevin makes a face.

"That looks really strange."

Well, yeah. Mike snags the trailing edge of the bedspread in his teeth -- ugh, cotton and Tide -- and drags it behind him into the ensuite. He's probably going to need to be able to talk, but standing around in his birthday suit just makes him feel at a disadvantage.

(This way, if Kevin calls the cops on him, at least he won't be naked in the tabloid pictures.)

Climbing back onto two feet again feels like a relief, like he was squashed into too small a space without noticing for days. Which he guesses he has been; he's never figured out where the extra _him_ goes when he's running around with fur.

He takes a minute to try to brush the dog fur out of his hair and arranges the bedspread around him like a really crappy toga costume, then takes a deep breath and steps out into the bedroom again.

Kevin's standing by the foot of the bed, staring at him.

"So, um," Mike starts, "Sorry for sca-- for startling you like that, and if you could maybe call a cab, I'll get right out of your hair."

Kevin keeps staring.

"And if I could maybe borrow some pants." Mike winces at himself. "Sorry."

"You were the dog," Kevin says finally.

Mike shuts his eyes. "Yeah."

"And now you're human."

"I'm _always_ human," Mike fires back. "Just sometimes I'm -- kind of dog-shaped." 

"How?"

What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? "I don't know!" Mike yells, then remembers he's trying to keep on Kevin's good side and hushes himself. "I don't know. It just happens, and I didn't have tags, and they took me to the pound. And then you -- came along." _Found me_ sounds a lot more -- more -- than Mike wants out loud; _brought me home_ is even worse. "And, well -- here we are."

"You know this is pretty unbelievable, right?" Kevin says.

Mike has just lost his patience with this shit. He just wants to get out of here, to go home to his shitty apartment and maybe drunk-dial Gabe to yell at him again for starting this whole thing. "Trust me, I know. Look, if I can just borrow a pair of shorts and get a cab or something, I'll go."

"Yeah." Kevin shakes himself. "Sorry, I -- yeah." He crosses over to the dresser and pulls open a few drawers, coming out with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that he leaves on the bed. "I'll just -- be outside." He slides out the door.

The sweatpants even sort of fit. Mike is so not being picky right now. He's a little surprised Kevin's not waiting in the hall when he comes out, but he's in the living room at the bottom of the stairs, watching Mike descend and still holding on to his phone.

"What's your name?" he asks, when Mike's still three steps up. "Since you know who I am and all."

"Mike," Mike answers on reflex. "Mike Carden." Kevin's probably going to Google him to see if he's a serial killer, but whatever. All he'll find is a bunch of old music articles.

"I called a cab," Kevin says. "I made coffee, while we're waiting."

Mike takes the cup when Kevin hands it to him, but eyes him over the top of it. "You seem awfully calm about this."

Kevin sips his own coffee. "Panicking didn't seem to be getting us anywhere. And, I mean, it's unbelievable, but unless you have some really tricky mirrors or something rigged up in my house, it's true, so." He shrugs and takes another sip.

"Well, thanks." It feels awkward, but this whole thing is awkward. "For not calling the cops and all, I mean. I'd have been in trouble all over again."

Kevin nods and glances out the window. "You should get some tags. For when you're -- you know. So you don't get picked up as a stray again."

"Yeah. Yeah, I should." There's a beep outside, and Mike puts down his half-empty cup. "I guess that's my ride."

He's so busy picking his way over the sidewalk that he doesn't notice Kevin's following him until he's opening the door and Kevin's leaning into the driver's window, handing him something -- money, probably. Mike flushes a little, but he'll take the charity -- he doesn't want to piss of anyone else today.

He does roll down the window and say "Thanks," just before the cab drives off.

It's a pretty quiet drive after Mike gives his address. Mike's trying to figure out where the heck they are, and he's surprised when suddenly they're in familiar streets.

"Thanks," he says when the cab pulls up. "Um, do I owe you any more?"

"Nah, he covered it," the cabbie says easily, so Mike just says "Thanks" again and slides out.

He pays attention climbing the stairs to his floor, since all he needs is for some joker to have smashed a beer bottle in a corner and glass in his feet. It's all pretty clean, though; he just focuses on a shower when he gets home.

His neighbor is home, so he gets the spare key from her and lets himself in. It feels like a strange place, even though he's only been gone -- what, less than a week, he's pretty sure. It's the same mold in the corner of the shower, though, and the thick towel that his Mom sent him because she knows him, and the same microwave on the counter that he can't figure out how to set the time on.

His computer says he's been gone for six days, and he has 37 new messages and 171 spam messages. He'll deal with them later.

His car, for a miracle, hasn't been towed or set on fire, and the battery's not even flat, so that's a good thing.

He throws out everything in the fridge, borrows some notes from the classes he missed, gets himself some real-looking tags, and goes back to running on the beach.

Something's changed, though. There are still seagulls and seaweed, and it's still good to stretch his legs, but it's not as fun as it used to be. He goes even earlier, before all but the super-serious runners go, and it's better, but there's still something -- missing.

He ignores it for a week or so, keeps his head down and catches up on missed work, clears the spam filter, goes for some long swims. And then he sighs and gives in.

The streets look different from this direction, and it turns out the cabbie took some detours, but it's really not that far, in LA terms, before Mike's in the right area. He cruises the residential streets slowly, trying not to look like a perv or a burglar, until he's pretty sure he's got it, and then he finds a nice quiet dead end to leave the car in.

As soon as his feet hit the pavement, he's sure he's got the right place -- the smells are the same, there's that kid Joey's stuff spread across the lawn, the cat from a few doors down that Mike never got a glimpse of has been around -- and it's easier than he was afraid it might be to pick out the right front walk, the right door. Hitting the doorbell is a little trickier, but he manages, and then he waits.

Kevin looks puzzled when he opens the door, and then he looks down. Mike can't figure out his expression, so he just looks back, and drops the wallet on the porch boards. There's no money in it, just his driver's license and student card, the shit that proves he's a real boy. He felt a little stupid, but -- he did it anyway.

Kevin looks at the cards, looks at Mike, then puts the wallet back down. He pulls out his own and flips through, coming up with his own driver's license -- New Jersey, weird. He crouches down and holds it up so Mike can see it, and says, "Hi, I'm Kevin."

Mike can't really read like this, but yeah, the picture's Kevin, all flyaway curly hair and an unusually somber expression. But he already knew that. He looks back at Kevin, not sure what his next move is.

Kevin tucks his wallet away again and stands up. He doesn't look certain either, but he says, "So, Mike -- you want to go for a walk?"

**Author's Note:**

> For those who care about this sort of thing, Mike is something very like a [Working Cocker Spaniel](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/English_Cocker_Spaniel#Working_Cockers). [Picture](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:FieldCocker2.JPG).
> 
> Obligatory PSA: While many male owners of male dogs feel _strongly_ , shall we say, about the question of neutering (srsly, I've had guys, completely unprompted, start explaining to me why they feel it would damage their dog's masculinity and something, I wasn't actually listening), a neutered pet dog will have less aggression (if male) and be happier, get along better with dogs *and* humans, and is at lower risk of various cancers in later life. It's nicer to neuter!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Sit, Stay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534685) by [chalcopyrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chalcopyrite/pseuds/chalcopyrite), [reena_jenkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins)




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